[3] how did we end up here ;; nh

53 » Where do Broken Hearts Go

◊ Niall ◊

Los Angeles, United States of America, 8 May 2024

8.07 PM

I don't even know how long I sit here on the bathroom floor.

Minutes?

Hours?

The fucking concept of time slipped through my fingers the second she stopped talking to me. All I know is the tiles were cold enough to numb my skin, cold enough that it felt like they were eating through me—biting into my back, my arms, my legs. I was shivering but drenched in sweat, like my body couldn't decide whether it wanted to collapse or combust.

At some point, I dragged myself up. My knees buckled, my head spinning, the whole room tilting like the floor wasn't steady anymore. My shoulder slammed against the wall before my hand finally found the light switch.

I stumbled forward, a bottle clutched tight in my fist—whiskey, expensive vodka, I couldn't even tell anymore. Labels didn't matter; all that mattered was how it burned down my throat, how it drowned the noise in my chest for maybe a second before it all came roaring back. My throat is raw, shredded, every swallow like glass. I'd nearly drained the whole thing in less than... five hours. Perhaps.

I slump back down against the wall, bottle pressed to my lips even though nothing came out. My head tips back until it smacked the tiles.

Cold. Empty. Silent.

And fuck, silence is the loudest goddamn thing in the world.

I don't know what the fuck I'm supposed to do anymore.

What the fuck have I done?

It's been a week.

Seven fucking days of clawing for her—texting, calling, staring at my phone until my eyes burned. Begging the universe for just one word, one sign she hadn't erased me completely. And still... nothing. No text. No call. Just absence. Just silence that eats through me worse than any scream.

I asked Diana once. "She's fine," she said, but her voice shook. Fine my ass. Fine doesn't vanish like this. Fine doesn't cut me out of her life like I'm poison.

I keep telling myself; maybe tomorrow she'll answer. Maybe tomorrow she'll remember I exist. But every tomorrow bleeds into the next, and all I get is nothing.

What if she's gone forever?

And life—fucking life—doesn't give a shit about my wreckage. The world doesn't stop spinning because I'm bleeding inside. I still have to drag my half-dead body out of bed, slap water on my face, show up to rehearsals, interviews, meetings. Pretend I'm fine. Pretend I'm not unraveling. Smile when they shove a camera in my face. Laugh at bullshit jokes when all I want is to curl up on the floor and rot. Do you know how insane it feels—to stand on a stage, sing about love, sing about hope, when the only thing running through your veins is despair so thick it chokes you?

Every question, every headline, every rumor—I shut it down. Deny. Deflect. Force out the words, "Don't believe everything you read on the internet!". Nothing more. I don't have the energy to fucking explain myself to the world. How do you explain something you can't even understand yourself?

Eventually, the liquor drags me back up to my feet. My knees knock together, my head lolling, and I stagger toward the mirror. The big one above the sink.

The light there is harsher than the one overhead, somehow sharper, slicing me open with no mercy.

And the reflection—fuck. It hits me like a punch straight to the jaw.